Goblin Quest

by Philip Reeve

  Half of Clovenstone seemed to be waiting on the harbourside as the Swan’s passengers came ashore: Fentongoose, Doctor Prong and dozens of goblins, all with their own tales of the battle to tell. Then Etty and some of her miners appeared, and Skarper was able to give her back her father’s amulet and tell her how it had helped to pull him back through the wall between the worlds from the super market. And finally King Floon and Queen Harwyn descended from their castle to invite everyone inside, and to declare a feast and holiday in honour of Skarper the Dragonslayer. Long into the night the lamps burned and the laughter echoed, and Henwyn, Zeewa and the others grew quite tired of telling their stories of the quest.

  Towards the end of the evening, Skarper noticed that Henwyn was missing from the feasting hall, and went to look for him. He went outside into the summer night. The battlements of Castle Floon seemed low and humble and sort of cosy after the heights of Elvensea, and the moon made a silvery pathway on the sea.

  Henwyn stood there, looking out over the harbour and the sea beyond. Skarper went and leaned upon the wall beside him, and they stood there together for a while in silence, until Skarper noticed another solitary figure leaning on a lower balcony, also staring out across the sea.

  “Is that Prince Rhind?” he asked softly.

  “Yes,” said Henwyn. “He is sad because his quest came to nothing. He did not raise the elves, only Hellesvor and her dragon, and you slew that. He so wanted to be a hero, poor man!”

  “Like you did, when you first turned up at Clovenstone,” said Skarper.

  “Yes,” said Henwyn, and sighed. “We are more alike than I wanted to admit, Prince Rhind and I. I did nothing on this quest either. Telling the story of it made me realize how useless I have been. I got eaten by a tree, and led you all on to the sea cliffs. It was Grumpling who saved us from the crabs. It was you who slew the dragon.”

  “It was your idea to burn Elvensea.”

  “But that is hardly something to be proud of!”

  “Well, it was you who defeated Hellesvor.”

  “That was Prawl. Even a rabbit was more use than me.”

  “Without you,” said Skarper, “we wouldn’t have had a quest at all. We’d have stayed in Clovenstone arguing and eating and burping and stuff, and Rhind would have raised Elvensea and Hellesvor would have burned half the world down, probably. Cos goblins are a bit rubbish sometimes, though we mean well. So we need someone to give us a shove and make us do things.”

  “That was Princess Ned’s job,” said Henwyn.

  “Well, now it’s yours,” said Skarper. “If you don’t do it, some other big lunk like Grumpling will come along and start organizing us all. And you’re the Lych Lord’s heir, after all, so it’s only right you should give us goblins a helping shove from time to time. A friendly kick up the tail, as it were. And I’ll help.”

  “You’ll be in Boskennack,” said Henwyn. “When the High King hears of your dragon slayery, he will send for you, and you will go to dwell in the Hall of Heroes.”

  “They don’t have goblins in the Hall of Heroes,” said Skarper. “You’re stuck with me.”

  But a few days later, when the long line of happy, full-bellied, hungover goblins was weaving its way back across the heathland west of Clovenstone, they saw a cloud of dust upon the road ahead, and as it drew closer they saw the glitter of armour and bright horse-trappings in its heart, and pretty soon it turned out to be a band of riders bearing the banner of the High King, and led by their old friend Garvon Hael.

  “Well met, my friends!” called the old warrior, reining in his horse and smiling down at them (and up at the giants). “News of your high deeds has come to Boskennack. The people of the sea told it to the fishermen, who told it the High King. I am come with his thanks.”

  The goblins all looked proud. There had been a time, not so long ago, when important people like High Kings had thought of goblins as a bit of a menace, if not downright evil.

  “Also, a command,” said Garvon Hael. “By the ancient custom of these lands, any man who slays a dragon is rewarded with a seat at the High King’s right hand, a place in the Hall of Heroes, and the hand in marriage of a princess of the royal line (subject to availability).” He paused a moment, smiling at Skarper. “Skarper, I am to take you back with me to Coriander. You shall live at Boskennack henceforth.”

  Skarper felt as dizzy as he had when he stepped off that crashed dragon at Elvensea. To be summoned to the Hall of Heroes was the greatest honour that could be bestowed upon a warrior of the Westlands. He thought of all the treasure there, the shining things with which he could fill his new nest. He thought of all the food – for the kitchens of Boskennack were famed far and wide. He didn’t like the sound of marrying a princess, but probably most princesses wouldn’t like the sound of marrying a goblin, so he expected he’d be allowed to skip that bit. It would be brilliant!

  And yet his heart did not leap up, as he knew it should. He thought of Clovenstone: the weed-grown ruins, the damp rooms and draughty windows, the pervading smells of cheese and goblins. He thought about blackberrying in the ruins with Henwyn or Zeewa – there would be big, juicy blackberries at the end of a summer like this – and how sad it would be if he never got to prick his paws again on Clovenstone’s fearsome bramble patches, and sit down afterwards with his friends on some patch of overgrown lawn to eat berries and talk of this and that.

  “I’m only a hero by accident,” he said.

  “That doesn’t matter,” laughed Garvon Hael. “So are most heroes! You cannot refuse this summons, dragonslayer.” And he gestured at a riderless horse that one of his companions held by the reins. Its stirrups had already been shortened to fit Skarper’s short goblin legs.

  “The thing is…” said Skarper, looking round, wondering how he should say goodbye to his friends, and how long it would be before he saw them again. “The thing is… It wasn’t me who slew the dragon. It was Prince Rhind!”

  There was a bit of commotion among the goblins at that. Cries of “No!” and “What?” and “Was it?” and, “Anchovies!” Prince Rhind shook his head disbelievingly.

  “It’s true,” said Skarper. “Rhind got knocked out by Hellesvor, and it’s blurred his memories a bit. It was him who chopped the dragon’s head off, fair and square. He’s the one who belongs in the Hall of Heroes, not me.”

  “But the sea people said—”

  “They must have been lying,” said Henwyn. “Or perhaps they got the wrong end of the stick. At any rate, Skarper is right. It was Rhind who slew the dragon. Wasn’t it?”

  “Yes!” said Zeewa, cottoning on. “Yes!” said Breenge and Prawl. “Yes,” said Spurtle (who was back in his own shape now). “I suppose it must have been,” said Rhind.

  There was a gleam in the grey eyes of Garvon Hael that suggested he did not believe this for a moment. But he understood why it was being done, and so he nodded, and said, “Rhind of Tyr Davas, welcome. Are you ready to ride with me now?”

  And Prince Rhind, blushing and shaking his head in amazement, but beaming too, said to Skarper, “Are you sure?”

  Skarper nodded.

  “Then yes!” said Rhind. And goodbyes were said, and he mounted the horse (whose stirrups had been lengthened again). Horses were found for Prawl and Breenge too, who were to go with him, and once all were mounted, the riders from Boskennack turned south again, for the High King had been keen to bring the dragonslayer to the Hall of Heroes before the story of his victory grew too old.

  “Prince Rhind will fit in well at Boskennack,” said Garvon Hael, before he spurred his horse and followed them.

  “Oh, he is very brave, really,” said Henwyn.

  “I am sure he is,” said Garvon Hael. “But if we ever find that we have need of true heroes, we shall send word to Clovenstone.”

  The goblins shouted, burped, hallooed. But Henwyn said, “Oh, we aren’t heroes,
not really.” And Skarper said, “We just sort of muddle along.”

  And then they went on their way, goblins, giants and humans, laughing and singing under the summer sun, muddling along through the lengthening shadows and the lanes where the blackberries were ripening, home to Clovenstone.

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  First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2014

  This electronic edition published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2014

  Text copyright © Philip Reeve, 2014

  Illustrations copyright © Philip Reeve, 2014

  The right of Philip Reeve to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by him.

  eISBN 978 1407 14289 0

  A CIP catalogue record for this work is available from the British Library.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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